


Pushing Up The Roses

by cannibalisticshadows



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), iZombie (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Cannibalism, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, Inspired by iZombie (TV), Mild Gore, Older Man/Younger Woman, Rating May Change, Romantic Comedy, you don't have to know anything about izombie to read this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2018-12-31 10:44:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12130749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibalisticshadows/pseuds/cannibalisticshadows
Summary: Gold is thrilled that his overly-introverted grandson has finally made a friend. Too bad she's already dead.





	1. Henry's New Friend

Henry was a shy, scholarly young boy. He was good about listening to his elders, doing the chores on time, eating all his vegetables, and going to bed when told without much complaint. In his spare time, Henry would be anywhere it was quiet and peaceful, most likely reading a book nearly the size of his own head. He was a good boy. All of Storybrooke knew that. They also knew that, though he was a shining example, Henry was a bit of a loner. He preferred studying to socializing. He didn’t have friends. He had a protective family. Most people didn’t like his family.

So, without further ado, it was quite surprising one Monday on a chilly autumn evening when Henry came home in the most radiant mood, shouting on about how he’d made a new friend.

“A friend?” his grandpa inquired with light incredulity in his tone, if not shocked in an odd, pleased sort of way. Henry had a small class at school, and all – if not most – of them had been classmates since daycare. Even then, Henry remained distant from his peers. So, what event could possibly bring the man’s introverted grandson to befriend someone apart of a lot the boy shared no evident interests with prior to now? Who on earth had his grandson befriended? 

Henry beamed and confirmed with a bright “Yeah!” with which his hazel-green eyes alight with mirth. “Her name is Belle. She works in the hospital.”

His grandpa winced as a surge of skepticism grasped him, albeit internally. 

“She _works_ —” Henry’s mother echoed as she marched into the room, her voice soaked in suspicion. “Where did you meet this woman, Henry? Why haven’t I heard of her before?” 

His grandpa mumbled, “I’m wondering that myself…”

Sensing the appending third-degree from both parties, the young boy shook his head in attempt to appease Grandpa and his mother. “Belle’s _super_ nice. I just met her at Clark’s drug shop when I was buying some candy with my leftover lunch money. She helped defend me when Nick and Ava tried to—to tease me.”

That little bit smoothed down only half of the adults’ ruffled feathers. His mother hardened her eyes. “And you made a friend out of this _Belle_?”

“Yeah, I’d like to think so. Belle likes to read. She says she can’t decide if she’s with Hufflepuff or Gryffindor.”

“And she has a job at the hospital?”

Henry wandered to the kitchen, where he snagged an apple from the fruit basket on the island. “She does bookkeeping there.”

“Bookkeeping,” his grandpa deadpanned. 

“M-hmm.”

“Right… So kid,” his mother began with a forced cheer, putting her hands on her hips, “let’s get you fed and settled. Your grandfather will help you with homework—“ she shoot a glare at said man who was seated at the couch and coffee table. He nodded in agreement over the shuffling of his paperwork “—then I’m gonna head on down to the station. Got graveyard shift tonight.” 

The three went on about their business, avoiding the topic of Belle for the moment

Henry’s mother, Emma Swan, was a woman of steel independence and determination. Henry thought the world of her, oblivious to the “awkward” way she handled him. She was a very loyal and upfront person, but incredibly hesitant to give the tiniest sliver of trust to those she didn’t know. It was only last year that Emma had met her son for the very first time since giving birth to him eleven years ago. Henry was happy to have her in his life. She, however, was still getting use to calling him her son. He hadn’t called Emma “Mom” yet.

As for Henry’s grandfather, that was a different tale. Mr. Gold was a Scottish pawnbroker, an attorney, and a landlord all in one. When he walked down the street, whither it was to go to work or to pick up rent, people gave him a very wide berth when they passed him. He own every building in Storybrooke, knew every soul resident, and managed it all with a cold, heartless, ruthless power that every townsmen feared with a passion. Gold did not gain the title of “Beast” for nothing. Henry thought Grandpa was kinda cool, if not a little lonely. Like Henry. He had a hand in most of Henry’s upbringing. 

“Hey kid, did you possibly catch your lady-friend’s full name?” Emma asked her son by the front door, pulling her leather jacket on.

“Um…” he thought. “Nope! Just Belle.”

Emma pursed her lips, but nodded anyway. She patted Henry on the shoulder, nodded fairwell to Gold, and left for work.

~.~.~

Two weeks and three days later after Henry’s befriending of the woman named Belle (whom Gold had yet to meet), Gold began to notice a slight change in his grandson. Henry would come home in the evenings, an hour or two after school had let out, and seem ten times happier than he’d ever seen. His grandson would go on and on about what he’d done that day, what he did with Belle, and just about every tiny thing related to food, the mystery of life, or simply Bell. Everything in Henry’s life suddenly had an apparent meaning. Gold felt a mirrored joy within himself as he watched Henry reminiscence about his day with animated exuberance. He and Emma had taken to glancing at each other knowingly when Henry would do this. It seamed that not only Henry’s happiness had come about with this Belle, but Gold’s standing with Emma had improved as well. Two weeks ago Gold and Emma regarded each other with a standoffishness that left both parties raw and unyielding to the other’s position in Henry’s life, much less Storybrooke itself. It didn’t help matters that his grandson was the rope used for the three-way tug-of-war between Gold, Emma, and Regina Mills. 

Regina Mills was the mayor. She was the one who had changed Henry’s diapers and got the privilege to the title of Mom. Gold had more or less given Henry to Regina when social services showed up at his doorstep eleven years ago with a tiny baby boy, saying it was his dead son’s son.

A shit load of emotions came over Gold the day his son died and his grandson was born. The mother of Henry, who Gold knew nothing of at the time, wished to remain unknown when giving Gold her newborn. Too heartbroken to properly be the guardian of his grandson, he turned the baby over to Regina. 

Up to a year ago Gold and Regina were the surrogate parents of Henry. She was practically Henry’s mother in every way, but her rigid, overprotectiveness had driven the boy to Gold half the time. Gold saw so much of his own son in Henry, and was near hesitant to let the boy close in fear of breaking down. However, Henry was persistent, especially when Regina would force the boy between a rock and a hard place at home. He probably saw Gold as a third-option, an escape of sorts. Gold relented, and eventually found delight in his grandson’s company. The two would read together or play chess most of the time.

It had always been Henry revolving between Regina and Gold. It was like that for ten years before the boy began to question things. Henry knew that his father, Gold’s son, was dead. But what of his mother?

Surprise, surprise, Henry goes missing one faithful day with his teacher’s borrowed credit card and shows up a day later with a blonde woman in a yellow Volkswagen who he claims is his birth mother.

Now Emma Swan was another part of her son’s life; an alien and an outsider that Gold and Regina were forced to adjust with. 

Gold thought Henry was happy with Emma in his life. Things were easier when Gold offered Emma a temporary place to stay one night when she was booted from Granny’s B&B months back (by Regina). Henry seemed happy when Emma was promoted as deputy, and after Gram’s death, the sheriff. 

When Henry was not with his surrogate mother, he was with his grandfather, and Emma would stay with them for Henry’s sake and that alone. When Henry was with his surrogate mother, Emma would stay at Mary Margret’s apartment. 

Henry switched off from Gold’s to Regina’s ever other week. 

As for today, it was a Wednesday. Henry was at school, and Gold was looking back to what Henry told him and Emma last night over dinner. 

_“And she loves hot sauce.”_

_“Hot sauce?” Emma said, more so amused than bemused like before._

_“Yeah! Belle loves spicy foods. She puts that sauce in_ everything. _Even tea_!”

_“Hot sauce in tea?” It was Gold’s turn to be surprised. “Ah, I’m afraid that’s where I draw the line to ‘trying new foods’.”_

They laughed. Like a family. Like everything was perfect. And for a moment, it was, but that morning Gold thought over something.

Why hadn’t he met this famous Belle, yet?

“Emma,” he began, after the woman came back from walking Henry to the bus stop. “Have you met Henry’s Belle yet?”

She blinked owlishly and stared off to the side. Placing her hands on her hips in her usual manner, she brought her gaze to Gold’s. “No. No, I haven’t. You?”

“No. Have you heard of her outside of what Henry had said?”

“No…”

They both stared. 

Emma said, “I’ll pull up her records at the station.”

They nodded on it, Emma left for work, and Gold went to finish up some paperwork before going to the pawnshop. 

As the day wore on, Gold could not help but feel dubious of Henry’s truthfulness. Was Belle even… an actual person? Gold was very well aware of his grandson’s extraordinary imagination, and of the brief psychosis Henry was going through before Emma came to town. 

But Henry spoke of this Belle as if the very sun shone out of her arse. Gold had yet to meet this woman (if she was real), yet he already knew everything about her. What she wore to work, what she ate, her choice in literature (which was quite extensive), what she was currently reading, what she did in her free time, her favorite board games, he name of her father, the name and breed of her cat… 

And did Gold mention that he had yet to meet this woman!? And, his impractical daughter-in-law Emma Swan hadn’t either! They agreed that if Henry had indeed made a friend out of this woman, he would be wise enough to recognize the implied age difference, and the appropriate behavior required for the relationship between a grown woman and an unrelated young boy. They did trust Henry that way. However, as time passed, it seemed that Henry grew very attached to this woman. Gold and Emma agreed to peruse more attention to their friendship. Perhaps by actually meeting this famous Belle.

Emma came to his pawnshop that afternoon with a very, very grave expression. “Gold, there is no ‘Belle’ that works at the hospital,” she said brusquely, throwing the door open with no regard for the bell above it. 

Gold went rigid, and lowered his morning newspaper flat on the table. He gave Emma a hard stare over the hook of his nose. “I do hope that was a joke.”

“Do you think that this is a fucking joke, old man?” Emma barked, dropping papers onto the counter before him. “The records say shit about a ‘Belle’ anything. No Isabelle, no Annabelle, no nobody.”

Gold shot daggers at the papers as if it was a dead baby dropped before him instead of papers. “I believe I will be making a call to Madam Mayor very soon.”

Emma nodded solemnly. “I’ll ask around.”

He folded his hands together in a very cold, calculating manner. “I do hope you put those people-finding skills of yours to good use.”

She sneered. “I’ll find her before Regina even gets a glimpse of this bitch.” 

He smiled pleasantly. “That’s the spirit.”

~.~.~.~

Gold called Regina once Emma went to go get information and coffee from Granny’s. “Madam Mayor,” he burred meaningfully. The response he got was a huff.

“Gold, what do you want? Some of us actually have a job they have to do, unlike someone I know…”

“I need to know everything about a woman by the name of Belle. Has she gone under your radar as of late?”

“And what, exactly, is this about?”

“It’s Henry.” Regina did not respond. “He’s… befriended a woman he calls Belle. He claims she works in bookkeeping at the hospital, but Emma has no record on anyone like this.”

Regina, again, was silent. After a moment, she speaks, but without malice. “I’ll call you in an hour or sooner.” Then she hangs up.

~.~.~

“Belle?” Ruby echoed, pouring Emma some coffee as she tossed a few creamer packs on the counter. “Yeah… no. Wait, no! Maybe. I think so. The only new girl I’ve seen comes around here ever now and then, usually to get some iced tea. Her name’s Lacey Something-Belle French. She comes to Storybrooke for work, but doesn’t live her. Last I heard she was working on renting the apartment over the library.”

“Mhmm…” Emma hummed, listening closely as she doctored her morning Joe. 

Ruby straightened and put a hand on her hip. She tapped her nails on the counter in thought. “She’s kinda… off. Weird, like, she’s a little antisocial—but nice, I guess. It’s as if she’s seen a ghost… Or is a ghost. Ha! I’m kidding, kidding. Overall the chick’s pretty chill. I’ve seen her talk to Henry now and then.”

“Anything else you know?”

“She’s super doper pale. Like, ghost pale. Mid-twenties. Red hair, blue eyes, looks like she’s a junkie or an insomniac. Works in the morgue. Like, dead bodies and stuff.”

Emma’s eyes widened. From Henry’s constant appraisal of Belle (or Lacey, now), she had imagined her son’s new pal to be a very quirky, albeit beautiful, middle-aged nurse. But in this case, it was no wonder Emma couldn’t find any records of this mystery woman in the hospital database! The morgue, hidden deep within the bowels of the hospital, was considered an entirely different department. It was the mortuary for not only Storybrooke, but for two other neighboring towns. Henry said she worked in the hospital. Not for the hospital. Emma mentally slapped both herself and her son.

Feeling a bit better, Emma thanked Ruby and fished her phone out of her back pocket. As she took her coffee to go, Emma dialed Dr. Victor Whale, the pathologist at the morgue, and swept out of Granny’s.

~.~.~

Regina called Gold back in twenty minutes. “Her full name is Lacey Isobel French. She’s a records keeper first, pathologist’s assistant second—works under Dr. Whale. Ms. French’s an intern from Avonlea College in Boston. Graduated half a year ago.”

“She,” Gold began, feeling relieved and distasteful all at once, “works at the _mortuary_?” 

“Yes. If Sheriff Swan had done her goddamn _job_ and searched _every_ department pertaining to the hospital, not just the main branch, I wouldn’t be having a heart attack over the thought of you two idiots letting my son be friends with a potential _criminal_ ,” Regina hissed.

Gold grimaced, but did nothing to let the woman know she’d hit a sore spot. “I understand your concern. Henry is a bright boy, Madam Mayor. He knows when a situation is sketchy. He’s just… very attached to this B—Ms. French”

She scoffed. “He’s mentioned nothing about this woman to me.”

“Perhaps, dearie,” Gold began, rising from the table in the backroom of his pawnshop, grabbing his cane as he limped to the front door, “it’s because of his previous lack of a social circle outside of his family. You are protective of him, and I applaud you that, but I believe Henry feels as if his friendship with this woman is threatened by you.”

“Me!?” Regina squawked over the phone. Gold smoothly cut in.

“I am by no means encouraging young Henry’s choice of a friend. I do, however, like that he is becoming more—“ he searched for the right word “—outgoing. In a sense.”

“Outgoing?” She repeated him, sounding highly arguable. Gold didn’t listen to what she said next and just pulled his overcoat and shoes on. The cold bit at his face as he slipped his kid gloves on while holding his cell against the crook of his shoulder and ear.

“Let me make this clear, Madam Mayor,” Gold said as he exited his shop. “Do not break Henry’s bond with this woman. Yes, I know the relationship between them is verging toward inappropriate conduct, but Henry’s overall happiness has skyrocketed just as hard as it did when he found his birth mother. I would be truly the beast our little fiefdom calls me if I were to deny him that.”

Regina sighed, drawing her breath out. “Fine, fine. I’ll let it be—But—”

“I do plan on meeting this famous Ms. French face-to-face before the week is out. You’ll receive a call from me once I interrogate her myself.”

“…You better. But, Gold?”

“Yes, dearie?”

“If Henry’s hurt, in any way, I will rain down all of Hell on you.”


	2. First Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rumbelle romance will start soon, I promise. I originally tagged this story as general/ship not the main focus, but I changed my mind because. It's effing Rumbelle. Who can ignore that. It's just going to start a little slow, so bare with me! 
> 
> I'll be updating "Join The Fan Club" next, for all my readers familiar with my work!

They met halfway down Main Street.

Both were hard-eyed and determined, marching up to the other like solders going to give a report to the general. 

“She’s—“ both speak, and then they both pause. Gold smirks ruefully. “I see you’ve already gotten wind of Ms. French.”

The blonde woman put her hands on her hips, tapping her cell hooked to her jeans. “Even called Whale. He’s got Belle at the morgue now—she’s going on her break. He says she usually goes to the library at this time.” That was where Henry usually met Belle.

“Excellent. Now we meet this lass.”

“Sure,” she nodded, “but Henry first. School’s nearly out for the day, old man.”

The man gave her a nasty Devil’s smile. “Then why don’t we ask Henry to introduce us?”

“How ‘bout I do it with him?”

Gold shot her a glare. Folding his hands over one another atop his cane’s golden handle, the man breaths in carefully. “Since when has Henry’s interests become your own?”

“Damn it, Gold,” she cussed him, “I mean that you’re not exactly the friendliest type. Wanna scare your grandson’s only BFF away? Look at you. Leroy who’s—what—a day behind his rent is avoiding you like the plague. Calm down.”

“…Fine. I’ll leave you to it then, dearie.”

~.~.~.~

Ten minutes later, Gold found himself brooding at the grocer’s like some pissed-off grizzly who’s lunch was just stolen. He was scanning the pipe tobacco display that was safely locked behind bullet-proof glass when a hooded figure hurried past him in the corner of his eye. The stranger swiftly grabbed a carry basket on his or her way. 

This took Gold out of his sulky mood. _So we meet again, reality_. The Scotsman began aware of the buzz of the store, chattering and shopping people moseying about. 

He wondered at that moment, why Emma and he never approached Henry to get him to introduce them to Miss French sooner. Wait. Probably because he didn’t want to scare off the one thing that made Henry practically glow with joy for existence.

Therefor Gold’s joy for existence, too. 

Sighing, he turned back toward the pipe tobaccos. Gold waved the casher over and requested the rum flake cuts. He thanked the employee indifferently as he paid. 

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” asked a noticeably Australian accent. Wasn’t Miss French suppose to be an Aussie? Hmm. Yet, this couldn’t be Henry’s Belle. They were all frolicking about without him.

One of Gold’s eyebrows quirked upward along with the side of his mouth. A petite figure, the same hooded one from minutes ago, had moseyed up next to him beside the counter. All he cared to note from this rather brash little person was a set of pump feminine lips, and a delicate pale chin and button nose. Another nosy little lass, he mused darkly. “Actually,” he purred snidely, “ yes I am, dearie. Helps my crippling lung cancer and COPD.”

She pursed her lips in a disapproving frown. “Did you know over four hundred and eighty thousand people die from smoking every year?” The lass said, raising a very pale, very willowy little hand to brush aside her hood. Long locks of dark auburn hair tumble forward. “I’ll go ahead and add that over forty thousand die from secondhand smoking alone.”

Gold was surprised by her boldness. It maddened him that someone dared to show such shameless disrespect toward him; however, another part of him was ridiculously pleased with the prospect of another quipping mate. Why, he internally sighed, did all his “friends” have to be women? Well, there was Jefferson, but the younger man rarely had his head right on his shoulders. Gold licks his lips and folded his hands over his cane before him. “Is that so?”

The lass pulled her hood off, then. She had a rather peaked face, with youthfully round cheeks and near-electric dark blue eyes, frowned up at him through curtains of thick russet hair; her roots were hoary. Strange. She put her shopping basket on the counter and sniffed, “You really don’t care? You could really be getting that lung cancer the next time you light up. Maybe you have it right now.” 

He briefly studied the contents of her basket: ramen, auburn hair dye, hot sauce, sun tan lotion, and two black and white movie DVDs. Turning back toward her, he growls darkly, “No, lassie, I don’t, and frankly, it’s none of your bloody business what I do with my health. It’s also rather hypocritical of you—trying to get skin cancer, aye?” He motioned toward the sun tan lotion.

The lass huffed and wrinkled her nose. She turned away with her chin up and haughty. She did not seem terribly put off by his cold nature. How novel. 

With his pipe tobacco purchased, he left the strange lass and the store with his mind haunted by a young, ashen face.

~.~.~.~

Emma stood with Henry outside of the library. Her son grip her hand tightly and was practically vibrating beside her. “You’re gonna love her, Emma! She’s super cool and knows a lot about stuff.”

“Alright, kid, alright,” she smiled awkwardly. It was strange, still, metting her kid’s “friend”. Why did it have to be a grown-ass woman, anyway? Seriously, Henry, anyone else your own age would do… Unless, that kid smoked and came from a shaky background like Henry’s old man (i.e. Gold and Henry’s father). 

Henry had told her and Gold that the library was where Belle hang out when not at work. It sounded like Belle could be an absolute bookworm, but sometimes Henry described the woman as being anything but. What kind of mortuary bookkeeper knows the entire encyclopedia on video games? 

Shrugging, Emma follows an excited Henry inside the library. The library was a very functional, simple place, with rows and rows of books of various subjects and sizes. There was a curved front desk facing an elevator that had a large OUT OF USE sign taped to the doors. Henry led her to a lounge area where three tables, two couches, and some beanbags were scattered. It looked quite cozy, especially with the sunlight gleaming down from the high windows. 

Emma’s son smiled happily and shepherded her to the couch. He sat on a beanbag after snagging a Harry Potter book from a display shelf. “Kid,” Emma began, feeling very out of place in the studious, quiet place in her jeans and leathers, sheriff bag and gun. “Be honest, okay? Is this Belle really all that great? It’s not even her actual name.”

“Sure it is,” Henry insisted, his brows knitting together. 

“Henry…” she softly groaned, leaning forward. She was ready to tell him what she learned about the real Belle, who was actually Lacey Isobel French, when suddenly a petite woman walked into the lounge area. Henry instantly brightened up.

“Belle!” 

“Hello Henry,” the woman said brightly, smiling shyly. “Sorry I’m late for Book Club. I had to run to the store to grab a few things. Ran into someone I think you know.”

“Oh, that’s okay. Oh! Belle, this is my birth mom, Emma.”

Emma flushed an embarrassed shade of pink. Standing, the blonde nodded in an awkward greeting and held out her hand. The other woman beamed at her, and met Emma’s gaze with a remarkably kind and genteel manner. Her handshake was soft; tiny hands that were shockingly pale, with visible contrasting blue veins on the insides of her wrists. There was light strength in the smaller woman’s grip, hinting toward a steal under armor coated in sugar-sweet warmheartedness. Emma’s handshake was stalwart, uncertain, and jerky. 

The blonde took the other woman in. She was petite, yes, and slightly verging toward the thin side. Her face was sickly pale, with dark marks under bright blue eyes. Long red-brown tresses tumbled over her shoulders, and Emma could not help but notice the whitish, silvery roots atop her head. Dyed hair? Huh. The woman wore a blue knee-length skirt and black tights, a belt around her waist, and a white blouse beneath a black hoodie jacket. “Hi, I’m Lacey French. But please, call me Belle.” The Aussie accent was expected, but just not so unforgettable. 

“See?” Henry said, as if it explained everything. “She’s Belle. Just Belle.”

Belle rolled her eyes playfully, ducking her head at Henry’s declaration. “You’re Sheriff Swan, right? Henry’s told me so much about you.” To Emma’s dismay, the other woman reached out to take both of the blonde’s hands. Why were Belle’s hands so cold? Everything else about the woman seemed warm.

“Ha,” Emma breathed, screwing her mouth. She soon tugged her hands free from the other female and took a step back, placing her hands defensively on her hips. “I can say the same of you,” she laughed cautiously. 

Belle just sweetly smiled. She sat on one end of the couch, and Emma did the same. The redhead said, “I think I ran into Mr. Gold.”

“Woah—wait, what?”

“Mr. Gold—Henry’s grandfather?” Henry nodded at this. “About yay tall—“ she lifted her hand a few fee above her head—“wears a tailored suit, red tie, walks with a cane?”

“At the store?” Emma said, watching Henry from the corner of her eye. He seemed eager to join them in their conversation, but Belle seemed to read the situation better. 

To Henry, she said, “Why don’t you go find a few books to talk about? I think I would like to get to know your mother.” Dejected, the kid nodded and wandered off. Belle turned back to Emma. “I understand why you want to meet me.”

“Yeah,” Emma huffed. “Why are you hanging around Henry so much?”

Belle had the courtesy of appearing guilty. “I never meant for a friendship to occur… if that’s what you wish to call it. I come here to dew some research, for my job. Henry comes here after school, and after we met at the drug store, he… sort of levitated to me? I just couldn’t push him away; he’s so sweet. Henry’s a smart young man, Emma—can I call you Emma?”

Before Emma knew it, they were talking as if friends. The blond found it terrifying and amazing all at once about how easy it was to talk to Belle. The woman radiated friendliness. No wonder Henry adored her. Soon enough, Henry returned with a pile of books, and patting the seat between the two women, Belle (with Emma’s forced synergy) motheringly read to him and talked over the whimsical fairy tales of the chosen book. It wasn’t even two minutes into it when a few other children were drawn into Belle’s reading. They soon had a very attentive crowed. 

Emma actually enjoyed it. Looking at Belle, her heart softened her opinion of her, and decided that the petite, strange, overly friendly woman was very much welcome into her little family.


	3. Belle's Insert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In _Once Upon a Time_ , Victor Frankenstein/Dr.Whale is played by David Anders. 
> 
> David Anders also plays in _iZombie_ as Blaine DeBeers. While OUAT's Victor is a good guy, iZ's Blaine is... not so good. So, keep a close eye on his character in this fic. Victor may or may not be fused with Blaine! (Tho, he's in the place of Ravi, too..) 
> 
> Over all, enjoy this tid-bit from Belle's POV. We'll get back to Gold next chapter.

Before I died, my life was perfect.

I was a budding journalist in beer reviewing. I drank for my job, gave tear-jerking criticism about it, mercilessly wrote about it, and did it all over again the next day. Gaston Desrosiers, my ex-fiancé, couldn’t have loved me and my budding alcoholism more. Maurice “Moe” French, my father, thought Gaston was a god among mortals and therefor free of flaw. My best friend, Mulan Hua, was the girl I could call up at three in the morning knowing she would have my back. People could hardly keep up with my audaciousness. There were no bounds for me, no gray clouds in my future, and I would flashed my prettiest “f*k-it-all” smile as I stormed over every obstacle in my path. I was the famous (or infamous, depending on who you ask) Lacey Isobel French. Beautiful, bold, brave, doughty, fierce, unstoppable Lacey. Racy Lacey, they called me.

Of course, all of that changed the day I died in an inexplicable zombie outbreak. 

Now I’m just Belle. Plain ole Belle. Frankly, dying gave me a whole new outlook on life. Why is beer reviewing even a thing, anyway...?

“Belle, Belle, come here,” my boss, Dr. Victor Whale, a very strange man with even stranger ideas, chants excitedly as he motions me over. “Look at this anterior rectus sheath contusion. It looks like Ruby morphing into a werewolf… Would it be wrong of me to text her that?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Hm. So,” the pathologist says as he spins in his wheelie stool to face me, putting down a writing pad and pin in the process. “In the six weeks you’ve been here, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve seen?”

“You writing romantic poetry over a corpse.”

Victor shut his eyes happily and huffed a laugh to himself. “You know, that’s what I like about you. Keeping things simple. Much more efficient than my last assistant. I was convinced he was my own Igor, for awhile there. I literally had to tell him how to do every little thing if it wasn’t beyond _‘shut the lights’_. It was always, _‘Yes, Doctor,’; ‘Right away, Doctor,’; ‘You look handsome today, Doctor,’_ from that guy...” The forensic pathologist sighed glumly. Turning back toward the body, he adds, “It’s nice to dissect Jane Doe’s stomach without anyone breathing down my neck like an overly eager-to-please submissive.”

“A Jane Doe?” I enquire as my interest sparked, ignoring the last bit he said. 

“Found in the garbage truck early this morning. Driver didn’t know where he picked her up. The truck used the crusher so that complicated reason of death. I’m guessing suicide—OR was it _murder_?” Just as Victor stood up and started to close his writing pad of sappy poetry, his cellphone rang in his lab coat pocket. Without pulling his dirtied gloves off, he picks his cell up and answers it. “Hello—? Oh! Good afternoon, Sheriff Swan!—“ Victor turns to me. “Take note of Jane’s autopsy? Bag her, tag her, throw her in the freezer. File it off with the other Does. Good girl. Duty calls.” 

As Victor left, I let out a sigh of relief. Thank heavens. It seamed as though the man was everywhere, lately. Not one second alone with a body since last week! I was starving!

See, every time I stand over a corpse, I think, _what the heck am I doing with my life?_ This was never in my cards half a year ago. My family and friends say it’s PTSD. 

But I don’t have post-traumatic stress. I have post-traumatic ennui. Post-traumatic defeatism. Post-traumatic “what’s the point”?

Electric bone saw in hand, I cut Jane Doe’s skull open to reveal her brain. Gray pink, like a mound of shrimp. Yum. Taking the delicate organ out, I weigh it, make a note of it in her records, and put half of it back. She’s bagged, tagged, and put away for Victor’s late use. With my half of brain, I take it to the mortuary’s employ kitchen and whip up some microwave noodles. My pound of brain is cut up, seasoned, and put into a Tupperware with the noodles. Adding a ridiculous amount of hot sauce that could make a grown man shed tears, I snap it shut and shake it up, grab some chopsticks, and settle into the lounge to watch some black-and-white romcom. 

It wasn’t always this way. I use to be passionate. Inspired. Daring. Exciting. Now I’m mostly hungry.

Eating my brain-and-ramen looked innocent enough, sitting in the dark watching crappy romance. So when the lights were suddenly turned on, I spin around in my chair with a half-guilty, half-frightened face. A noodle hung from my lips. 

It could be Henry… That sweet young boy who follows me around for reasons only God knew why, or someone from Boston who’s here to drag me to therapy. Mulan’s ready to flip me over her shoulder and toss me into a psyche ward. But to my shock, it’s _The Boss_.

Victor stood in the lounge’s doorway, looking dazed beyond words. His gaze flicks toward my bowl of food, then back to me. Those eyes of his twinkle as he says, “I have so many questions. First off, why the hot sauce? Is that a zombie thing?”


	4. Confronting the Dead

_“French? Don’t know a French girl.”_

_“She’s a petite woman. Pale—coppery hair?” ___

____

_“Oh! The cute but weird Australian one?”_

____

_“Yes…that would be the one.”_

____

Gold had been asking about Miss Lacey Isobel French all morning. After the whole “Rude Aussie” incident at the store, he’d gone back to work and smoked his pipe, brooding in the back of the pawnshop like a miserable old dragon cursed to its own cave. He stayed there until it was time for dinner—seven o’clock on the dot.

____

When Gold returned home, a giddy Henry and a dazed Emma greeted him. He groused as they told him what happened at today’s book reading, and Gold tried not to feel… well, _left out_. The only thing exited for him that day had been receiving a lecture by some lass half his age. And damn it, he sort of wanted to know this Belle too. Not that he would say that out loud, of course. 

____

“So, what was Miss French really like?” Gold asked Emma later that Wednesday evening, just after Henry went to bed.

____

Emma shrugged, sipping a beer. They were relaxing in the living room after the long day, actually able to endure the other’s company without hissing like cats. “Nice enough. Seriously cold hands, though. Way too cuddly.”

____

“Oh?” Gold was surprised. Being “nice enough” was a huge compliment coming from Emma Swan. “Well, I suppose what they say is true… Cold hands, warm heart.”

____

“Yeah, cold feet and no sweetheart.”

____

Gold chuckled darkly. “Is that why she spends all her time around children and dead bodies?”

____

Emma made a face. “If she went out as often as her personality suggested, she’d have one hell of a better tan.”

____

“I’m sorry?”

____

The woman across the sofa uncrossed her legs, looking at him in the eye. “Belle’s a walking corpse. Pale as a fucking ghost. White in her hair.”

____

“ _Oh?_ ” Gold’s mind went to the girl from the store, earlier that day.

____

“Yeah. Tiny, friendly, kinda cute.” Before Gold could ask what the woman wore, Emma added, “And she said she ran into you at the stop-n-shop.”

____

“…You don’t say.”

____

“Ha! Oh, Gold, did you seriously not _know_ that was Belle? How many Australians do we have in this town?”

____

Gold felt silly. Stupid, even. Blast. What a way for first meetings.

____

~.~.~.~.~

____

When Thursday rolled in, the Golds had breakfast. Gold walked Henry to the bus stop while Emma left for work. Once he was alone, he dashed to his pawnshop and asked every damn patron who came in that day. He had to know more about Lacey Isobel Bloody French.

____

It was Jefferson Madden to actually tell him anything about the mysterious woman.

____

“Yeeaaaaaah,” the younger man drawled, sticking his hands into his pockets. “I know her. She’s a little quirky, but, whatever floats your boat, ya know?”

____

“Yes,” Gold sighed. “Tell me about her.”

____

Jefferson hummed, rubbing his hands together with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “And what’s in it for little ole me?”

____

Glowering, the pawnbroker reached into his pocket and pulled his wallet out, and swiftly placed twenty dollars on the counter. Jefferson pressed his lips into a tight line. He wiggled his eyebrows up. _Higher_. The older man sighed and put twenty more on the counter. This had the taller male smile.

____

“Belle’s a cutie pie. Weirder and randomer than hell, but cute. She loooooves spicy stuff. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out she bathes in Tobacco sauce.”

____

“I gather as much. Do you know what she did before coming to work for Whale?”

____

The other rubbed his chin. “Beer reviewing, I believe.” 

____

“ _Beer_ reviewing?”

____

“Yup. Alcoholic stuff. Hard liquor. Strange, cuz she’s a prune—sort of. One minute she’s sweet-talking me up, the next she’s terrified of pigeons, and then the next day she’s insisting about how she _needs_ to go buy paint supplies.”

____

“Does she do that often?”

____

“No. Last time I saw Belle she was obsessing over erotic novels.”

____

Gold ponders over the new information. He nods and pushes the forty dollars across the counter to Jefferson, who smirks and flamboyantly plucks his prize up. “Why all the questions, Goldie? Got a crush on the Aussie chick?”

____

“No,” he hissed. “Henry’s her new best friend. I’m concerned.”

____

“Aaaah,” Jefferson nodded, understanding. “Well, if I know anything new, I’ll buzz.” The other man ruffled his hair and straightened his dress coat. He left with a wave, the tinkling of the bell over the pawnshop’s door signifying his departure.

____

The second the door closed, Gold snatched the phone up and dialed Dove.

____

~.~.~.~.~

____

To Gold’s horror, the strange bit about Miss French being an ex-beer reviewer wasn’t all off about her hidden history. Dove was flawless in his research, even going as far as uncovering juvenile records on the woman. 

____

Miss French was in juvie for underage drinking and driving at the mere age of fourteen. And more so, the woman was CURRENTLY attending an AA meeting in Boston. In the last four years, she had spent not one, but four separate nights in the Boston Police Department for excessive alcohol consumption in public. And, according to the alcoholic community, a merciless reviewer. In _alcohol_. However, her record said she had been clean for the last month, not so much as a single ticket toward her person… Rough schooling at best… _And wasn’t she Dr. Whale’s assistant, besides the mortuary’s clerk?_

____

And yet this woman had absolutely no experience in the medical field.

____

Furious for this being kept silent, Gold decided to pay Miss French a visit. 

____

~.~.~.~.~

____

“She’s moving in this weekend,” Henry shouted, storming into the Gold home later that evening. He dropped his book-bag by the door and marched up to his grandfather, who was helping Emma throw dinner together. “Can we help her?”

____

“Already?” Emma commented as Gold answered with, “Didn’t you and Emma just see Miss French yesterday?”

____

“Yes, but she said today that she’s moving to the library Sunday.”

____

“Kid, listen,” Emma said, putting plates on the table. It looked strange, still, Gold noted, that Sheriff Swan did all these mundane chores solely for Henry’s sake, in her skin-tight jeans and red leather jacket—gun and badge still attached to her waist. “Moving in’s kinda a big grown-up thing. You know I’d love to lend a hand to Belle, but I can’t just drop everything and go carry some boxes.”

____

Henry twisted his pouty lips, and huffed sadly. Turning to Gold, the boy asks, “Grandpa? Can we?”

____

Gold sighed. He hated it when Henry gave him the puppy-eyed look. “Henry, I…” he referred to his cane haplessly. “I’ll speak to her. Maybe we’ll ask Dove.”

____

“Cool! So, can I—“ 

____

“Henry,” his birth mother warned, “I’m sure Belle has people to help her out. You said she had close friends and family, right?”

____

“Not really.”

____

“Okay, well, this is a conversation for another time.” Gold announced, silencing both of them. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

____

Even after dinner, Gold did not mention his latest discovery about Miss French to Emma.

____

He would do it alone.

____

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

____

The morgue would be a very quiet place, Gold surmised. Dead people being dissected on cold steal tables, cleaning chemicals heavily used on all the tools for the pathology’s trade, and solemn men and woman dressed in lab coats and surgical masks moving meticulously about as they work. Yes, it would be a very quiet, serious place.

____

That goes to say that Gold was still disturbed for the sight that greeted him that Thursday evening. 

____

Miss French herself was standing over a corpse that had a white sheet covering its lower half. The forensic pathologist, Dr. Victor Whale, a slightly queer blonde man of late thirties, was nowhere in the morgue from Gold’s perspective. Rather, Gold only saw the tiny coppery haired assistant with her hair pinned up in the back by a bright blue bow, and dressed in a long white lab coat, surgical mask, medical visor, and black kitten heels. She was as pale as he remembered her. But not quite so bloody. If that wasn’t enough, it was the profoundly unpleasant smell permeating the air. Gold wanted to hold his nose, yet at the same time he feared inhaling the morgue air through his mouth.

____

“And I thought you did bookkeeping?”

____

The young woman squealed in surprise, nearly jumped out of her own skin. Visibly startled, she dropped the droning bone saw; it fell with a loud, ugly clatter, and nicked her right shoe. Without thinking, Gold swiftly stepped in, then, and reached out to grab her by the elbow, pulling her back a step from the rattling machine until it seized. Miss French regained her balance shakily, looking at him in disbelief. Her big blue eyes were wide with shock, but also clearly grateful. “Goodness, you gave me fright,” she remarked ardently, placing a willowy, blue latex-gloved hand over her heart. Dark blood smeared the white of her lab coat.

____

Gold sniffed and licked his lips. They were quite dry. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss French.” 

____

“Oh, it’s alright—I should’ve been more careful,” she said, running her hands down her lab coat. “And you are Mr. Gold. I don’t believe our first meeting was too formal, was it?”

____

“No, no it wasn’t,” Gold nodded to her. He’d shake her hand, wordlessly give her a signal that he was not so nice through a firm handshake, but… The pawnbroker tried not to stare at the blood splatters on the little lass before him. “Did you inquire after my identity when we parted or did my grandson already inform you?”

____

She laughed at this. It was a startling sound, so honest and bright. Gold felt a little shaken by her. Why was she so happy? He’d expected her to chide him again. “Henry speaks of you kindly, Mr. Gold. His description of you is spot-on.” 

____

“Oh?” Gold deadpanned, folding his hands over the handle of his cane. “I wasn’t aware I was such a dazzling conversation piece.”

____

The little lass beamed. “You really are! Have you actually traveled the whole world? Henry says you’ve been everywhere from Albuquerque to Zimbabwe. A to Z, if you catch my drift. It sounds extraordinary.”

____

“Yes…” Gold knitted his brows. “No, I haven’t been everywhere. I occasionally travel abroad for business, but not for pleasure.” He thoughtfully tapped his chin before returning his hand to the other atop his cane. Shifting the conversation, he starts with, “Miss French, I assume you are cleaver enough to figure out why I’m here.”

____

It was her turn to be put-off. She blinked those wide blue eyes of hers before speaking. Tentatively holding her hands together, she says, “I thought the sheriff herself already did that.”

____

Gold smiled sardonically. “You are correct, dearie. But I require some further questioning. You know, to help me sleep at night and all tha’.”

____

Her eyes flitted uncertainty over him. “Like what?”

____

“Like, why would you quit your—what was it, “beer reviewing”?—job for a position at the mortuary which is really no better than a glorified secretary.” He gestured to her being. “Is slicing up cadavers apart of the qualifications for a clerk?”

____

The young woman’s cheery demeanor finally dropped to the floor. She wrung her hands together, clenching and unclenching her muscles repeatedly until she gained the strength to respond. Gold felt giddy that he could shock her so, and even more so that he caught her red-handed (not quite so literally, but still). 

____

“Dr. Whale sometimes asks me to finish autopsies. Usually on John or Jane Does. ” she explained, seriously. “He’s understaffed. We’re the only ones here.”

____

He leers. “Isn’t it so? Asking a woman with a history of alcoholism with no experience in medical discipline to finish autopsies. Of course. It’s all sound.”

____

Miss French suddenly jerked, and began to angrily snap her gloves off. She pulled her visor off and began to unbutton her coat; she wore a pale blue flare dress. Pitifully glaring and on the verge of seething, she says, “You have absolutely no right to go through my personal record like that.”

____

“On the contrary, lass. I would hope all good guardians make sure their charges are spending time with morally correct individuals. Typically ones not cutting up the dead without proper authority.”

____

“I’m doing my _job,_ ” she insisted, storming across the room. Her heels clacked distractingly against the smooth floors. “And I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol for two months—”

____

“Two months!” Gold echoed, feigning a pleased surprise. He dramatically flared a hand to his chest. “Well, that’s a clear turn-around, isn’t it?” he scoffs.

____

“What do you want with me, Mr. Gold?” The young woman demands, snatching a file from a cabinet. She storms back to him, not unlike an angry kitten. With a huff, she hands the file she’s retrieved to him. Her hands shook. “I have all my credentials, even Victor’s approval of this autopsy. You could call him up right now. Go right ahead. He’ll tell you.”

____

Gold quirks an eyebrow, keeping his sable eyes pinned to her as he opens the file. Indeed, all of Miss Lacey Isobel French’s credentials are in it, and a written assent for her to do autopsies on unidentified bodies. There was also a note of her latest achievements at an AA group up in Boston. 

____

He raises his eyes back to the furious little thing before him. So angry, and still so peaked. Was she medically ill, or was Miss French naturally this ashen? A little albino, was she? “This doesn’t make me feel any better about you spending time with Henry.” 

____

“And why is that, sir?”

____

“You are not an appropriate influence on him.”

____

“And you, the mayor, and the sheriff are? The poor boy is an outsider!”

____

“Miss French, you are completely out of line,” he hissed. He glowered hideously at her over the hook of his nose, hand gripped tight on the golden handle of his cane. “As of right now, you are to never make contact with Henry again. I demand you stop associating with—“

____

“What, so he can continue being alone? He follows me around _everywhere!_ Did you know he once snuck in here at recess? Said he didn’t have anyone else to play with—and that’s _normal_ for him! Victor had to sneak him back out before anyone noticed. Henry doesn’t have a friend in the world—am I suppose to just shun him, then? Ignore him and tell him to go back home the next time he seeks me out? Tell me, Mr. Gold, tell me how lending a friendly hand toward a lonely little boy is so bad.” She aggressively poked his chest. Gold, shocked, stepped back a space from the small woman. “Tell me why I should ignore a child pleading for the simple kindness such as friendship. Go on, tell me!”

____

Gold gritted his teeth. Damn this woman. “How am I suppose to let a woman with a _shady background_ spend time alone with my grandson?”

____

“Why don’t you just look beyond the surface for once!?”

____

“I don’t look over alcoholism, dearie!”

____

“I am not an alcoholic!”

____

That was most certainly a lie, Gold thought. Yet the woman he was arguing with was not even red in the face. Still, she was white as a ghost. And still, he was pissed off about this entire situation. Belle was completely not a person he particularly liked at the moment, and his insides screamed at him to hit something, anything, to get the seething aggression out of his system before it blew his top off. A very dark part of him wanted to slam his cane against the autopsie table; he could imagine the corpse there now falling over, giving this ruddy-haired chit something more to clean up.

____

But he did not.

____

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he let out a loud, heavy sigh. His heart was beating wildly, but he ignored it in favor of being civil. “Look, dearie,” Gold began, “we both clearly—“

____

“We both _clearly_ care about him—“

____

“ _I_ am his—“ 

____

“Grandfather, yes, we went over that,” Belle said quickly. “If it bothers you so much, why don’t we all have supper together? That way I can proove to you I've changed my ways. I’m moving here pretty soon, and I think once I get my things unpacked I’ll invite you and Henry, Emma and Regina as well, over for supper. Or you and I can just take a walk in the park—a picnic. We can talk as much as we want. How does that sound?”

____

Belle was quite shameless, was she not? Guiltily, more carnal thoughts entered his mind that had nothing to do with Henry. Gold’s eyes looked her up and down. She was indeed a beautiful woman, with whole cheeks and lovely curves, and he wondered what she would look like with a bit of color on her. Like blushing red.

____

_Old fool,_ he cursed himself.

____

“…Fine. As soon as you move in.”

____

But boy, was Gold in for a doozy of a time.

____


End file.
